The field Medicae was very dark. For fear of attracting enemy artillery, none of the bright electrical lights were running. Every firing port and slit was covered by a sliding, metal blast shield. Larger ports were covered by similar mechanisms. Only candles and low-burning lamp packs, strung along the rockcrete columns throughout the wards, illuminated the wounded.

  Cots were arrayed in long rows. Black slates hung on the rungs at the bottom of each bed; the occupant’s name, rank, unit, and medical situation were written in chalk. Many appeared as lumps under brown and white blankets, trying to sleep through the pain. Others, too injured to find a comfortable position, sat upright. Bandages laced across their faces or around their arms. Some were missing hands, arms, and legs. Some didn’t have their faces covered and lho-sticks hung from their scarred lips. Quite a number simply stared at the dark walls. Aside from the occasional cough, pitiful moan, choked snore, and the murmurings between Medicae staff, it was very silent.

  Outside, Earthshaker Cannons thundered. Marsh Silas felt the vibrations in the rockcrete underneath his feet. Soot covered his face and bags hung under his empty violet eyes. His head hung over Lieutenant Hyram’s cot. They were in a ward separate from enlisted men; the volume of casualties was still high but at least there was more privacy. Each officer was afforded a folding screen on either side of his bed.

  Hyram was asleep, shirtless, and the right side of his chest was covered in bandages. According to the surgeon, they had to rebuild much of his chest via bionics. The right side of breast consisted of a metal plate which was fused to his flesh. Marsh Silas heard him screaming during the surgery. Aside from the reconstruction, they had to remove the fragments from the explosive round which struck him as well as the pieces of his flak armor which were dragged into his flesh. Part of his upper lung required treatment as well. After he was deposited in the cot, the surgeon who operated on him did not guarantee his recovery or his survival.

  “My Emperor, I ask of Thee who grants life and taketh it away, spare this man.” Marsh clutched his hands together. “He has done good and will continue to spread Your light in the darkest depths of these battlefields. In his stead punish me, for it is for my sins that he has been wounded. I asketh Thee, my Creator, my Guidance…” his lips quivered. Tears coursed down his cheeks. Unable to bear it, he leaned forward and rested his cheek on Hyram’s chest. His ear was right over his heart. He could feel and hear the weak heartbeat. “…please do not take him. He is my brother.”

  His hands broke and he covered his eyes. “Let him not suffer for mine-own failures. Let him live.” He broke down and started to cry again. “Please…please…” A hand fell on his back.

  “My love.” Marsh Silas looked up at Carstensen, who was ashen-faced. Her orange locks had grown longer in the days since the surgery. “Isenhour calls upon you.”

  “I’m not going on another of his missions,” Marsh Silas said. “I’m not leaving Seathan.”

  “I will look after him. It will take but a moment. See what the man has to say, walk to clear your head, get something to eat, and then return.” Before Marsh could continue his protest, Carstensen took him by the cheek. “You are no good to him if you are haggard and hungry. Go. I will fetch you when he wakes.”

  When, she said, not if. By the Emperor, Marsh Silas thought, what a woman. Her faith was so steadfast she would not even entertain the possibility of losing their friend. What strength, what courage. How he admired her—how he loved her. Such fortitude seemed otherworldly; how he wished to possess even a shred of it. Relenting, he stood up and nodded. Carstensen smiled, kissed him on his cheek, and took his seat.

  Passing through the dimly lit wards and throngs of orderlies and Sisters Hospitaller, Marsh pushed through the entrance. He didn’t realize how badly the facility stank of rot and death. The night air was crisp and clear, revitalizing him somewhat. But he could feel the cold season departing; soon, the rains would be upon them. So for a few moments, he stood in the snow merely drawing breath and expelling it, making little white clouds, taking in the last of winter.

  “I like nights like these.” Marsh Silas turned around to see Isenhour leaning against the wall of the Medicae. He pushed himself off with his foot and strolled up beside him. “No moon. No stars. It’s a perfect night to go scouting.” He held the lapels of his overcoat in a satisfied manner. Marsh Silas, tired and sore, was a bit bent over and small. When he didn’t respond, Isenhour looked at him. “To be a Scout Sergeant is to enter another kind of life. It’s a kind of madness, willing to go out alone and at great risk. Aye, it’s a thrill in a strange kind o’ way. But there’s more to it than that. You have to be willing to gaze at the enemy, witness his horrors, and carry them with you. For how long, who can say? But that is part of our sacrifice. To get close to the dreadful and terrifying, for it serves our fellow man.”

  Isenhour reached into a haversack hanging from his opposite shoulder. He produced an OSR trench knife; it was almost identical to Marsh’s save for its leatherbound grip and serrated edge. He tossed it from hand to hand, then held out to Marsh Silas. The Lieutenant hesitantly took it, inspected the blade, and then took the scabbard.

  “A gift for saving your life or conciliation for getting my friend hurt?”

  “You decided to come face-to-face with pure darkness for the lives of others. Many a Guardsman and Space Marine shall live now that the enemy can no longer summon his instruments.” When Marsh Silas didn’t say anything, Isenhour slid his hands into his pockets and looked at falling artillery shells in the far distance, no more than mere, brief flashes of white. “I care not what you think o’ me. I doubt my word has little weight with you, either. But it has been said.”

  It wasn’t forgiveness nor was it praise, merely an understanding from one soldier to another. Marsh hadn’t sought it specifically from him and having received it, he found it didn't make much difference. But, in a way, he did appreciate it, so he offered a curt nod.

  “A lot of good it did,” he remarked. “Seems like much of what I’ve done has come up short. I put my efforts into a task and it doesn’t seem to matter. If I just kept my trap shut and left the Space Marines well enough alone, we wouldn't have been wrapped into some crazy mission. Hell, I try to make up for my mistakes and you nearly died too. Whether or not I succeed or fail, seems like someone else has to pay for it.”

  Isenhour didn’t say anything for a little while. Marsh hadn’t meant to open up and he felt the air between them was more tense than before. He was not so much unnerved as he was tired and put-out. But the Scout Sergeant eventually lit a lho-stick, the burning end briefly illuminating his face, and released a casual breath.

  “Not everything’s about you. Even the Emperor cannot hold sway with all things. Life itself has a power, does it not? Who is to say Hyram would have or wouldn’t have been shot because of you, who is to say I would or wouldn’t have died at the hands of the Heretek, and who is to say whether or not your silence would or would not of kept us from being roped into that mission?”

  He took a long drag on his lho-stick and walked slightly in front of the Lieutenant. “If you’re trying to make things right with yourself, I don’t think that’s something you can solve with but one battle. That is a battle which lasts forever. Ain’t a matter o’ winning; it’s a matter of how you fight it.”

  He turned around and trundled towards the defense works. “Fight on, Marsh Silas,” he said over his shoulder. Just before Isenhour disappeared into the shadowed trenches surrounding the Medicae, Marsh took a step forward.

  “I say, Isenhour.” This made the Scout Sergeant stop and turn around. “Try not to get yourself killed if ye venture out tonight.”

  “I’ll see you in the morn, sir,” Isenhour scoffed.

  The Scout Sergeant disappeared. Marsh Silas lingered a little while longer, but upon hearing his empty stomach growl, he decided to go join Bloody Platoon in their trench.

  Aside from the thundering batteries all over the Imperial battlelines, it was mostly quiet. He could smell cooking fires, their smoke rising from the ventilation pipes of various blockhouses or the bunkers which studded the various trenches. Even the scent of lho-sticks being smoked in their multitudes throughout the trenches was carrying on the wind. Acrid powder and the sting of fuel hung in the air. Occasionally, he passed troopers wearing cloaks and mantles over their overcoats. Some were from the home regiments while others were Shock Troopers. A few Whiteshields passed by laden with supplies, no doubt fulfilling a menial detail by their instructor.

  Retracing his steps to Bloody Platoon’s bivouac, he entered the communication trench in an interior line about eight hundred meters from the frontline. This was a secondary position manned by personnel who’d been fighting for the past few days. With fresh regiments having just arrived, they could pull back and rest in a location that would allow them to enter the parapet in case of a major action.

  Passing through the threshold, he found a series of wooden bunks stuffed with ratty mattresses and field blankets. The men and women of Bloody Platoon were cast about, some sitting on stools at the long tables in the center or piled into the bunks. Some stood by the stove at the far end, drinking recaf and heating their hands by the open flame. Most surprising of all was the presence of Captain Galen and Janus the Scout. When the platoon saw Marsh, everyone stood up.

  “Does the Lieutenant live?” asked Babcock, emerging from a bunk.

  Marsh Silas did not want to lie but he did not want them to worry incessantly either. They were still partially mobilized and needed to maintain a state of readiness. So, he nodded as he passed through the crowd.

  “The man draws breath, but still he sleeps,” Marsh said.

  “Then no change,” Honeycutt grumbled. When some of the men looked at him worriedly, the medic cleared his throat and straightened out on his bunk. “He should pull through soon, though no one can be certain if can return to action within the next few weeks.”

  Marsh Silas smiled as someone gave him an open ration; plain biscuits, reconstituted vegetables, and some meat chunks. He heated up the stove and waited for a fresh brew of recaf. As the warmth of the fire overtook him, he remembered those early days on Army’s Meadow. Hyram was so timid, bookish, and unsure of himself. The man may have had violet eyes but that didn’t mean he looked the part in uniform. Everything about him was baggy and disorderly. All the contention he held at his appointment now seemed a faraway, sweet memory.

  At that moment, he wished he and his comrades were back at Army’s Meadow. He missed the flowers and the crashing surf that rang in his ears when he exited the bunker each morning. It was going on two solar months since they’d been there, first occupied by their furlough and now this damnable siege.

  “Forgive me, Captain Galen, I’ve not eaten all day,” Marsh said. He knew the longer he stood over his meal, waiting for it to heat, the more he would wander in his mind. “To what do we owe your esteemable company?”

  “Janus has brought decorations to you and your platoon on the behalf of Captain Evander and the White Consuls. I have escorted him to your billet,” Galen explained. Bloody Platoon had received Militarum decorations for the Spire Raid just the day before and were already bedecked with medals of gallantry and valor. They had even earned another unit citation: the Order of the Holy Tower & Shield. But upon hearing Galen, their eyes grew wider than saucers.

  Janus opened several envelopes. The entire unit had been awarded a Golden Sabatine while Marsh and many others received Silver Sabatines.

  “These medals are named for our homeworld. To be awarded one is to embody the merits which make our Chapter and its culture great,” Janus explained. “Wear these medals with honor. Captain Evander expresses his apologies that there can be no formal ceremony, but the White Consuls are engaged at the front.”

  “He does not require forgiveness,” Marsh Silas said. “We of the Bloody Platoon thank ye.”

  “I thank you also for the decoration.” Janus motioned to the Cadian Cross with Laurels attached to his harness. Marsh had cited him for his conduct and bravery in the raid. The Lieutenant nodded graciously. The Scout then reached into his pocket and procured another envelope. “This is for Lieutenant-Precept Hyram for his valor: the Order of the Cerulean Eagle. A high award of the White Consuls.”

  “I will deliver it to him when he is awake,” Marsh said quietly. He took the medal out and examined the craftsmanship. It took the shape of an eagle’s head and was composed of deep lapis lazuli. He ran his thumb over it. “He will be greatly honored by this.”

  Marsh tucked it away and turned to his meal. Dull, metallic stomps approached.

  “I understand the weight you feel upon your shoulders, Cross,” said Captain Galen. “All commanders feel such gravity.”

  “Hyram was my superior officer; he wasn’t always a good one. I had to train him. But, he trained me also. I do not think I would be the leader I am without his tutelage. His humanity, his proclivity for academics, it has all played a hand. But he should not suffer for my decisions.”

  “He too is an officer and a leader. Good leaders always recognize that there will be a cost and not just in the lives of your warriors. There comes a time when we, as commanders, we must put ourselves in front and take on the burden. You have done as much already—you will again, I can see this. Lieutenant Hyram understands this also. A day will come when the commander must lay down his life for his men. Whether he survives or dies matters; it is the act that makes the most difference. You know the score, and so does he. Remember that in future, Lieutenant.”

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  Captain Galen left with an amicable smile. Janus offered one more respectful nod before he followed. Head hung low, Marsh joined his comrades at the table with his meal.

  “An Astartes badge of courage!” Rowley exclaimed excitedly. “Gunny Wulff, you must be so proud!” The reinstated NCO sitting across from Marsh, beamed with pride. She had earned a Silver Sabatine for breaking an Iron Warrior’s power armor with a krak grenade and then stuffing a fragmentation grenade in the crevice when he was stunned.

  “Fight well and hard in their presence, and you too shall have one,” she assured them. “Wouldn’t you agree, Marsh Silas?”

  “Of course,” he said, forcing a smile. He plucked the medal from the young one’s hand and examined it himself. It was a circular silver medal detailed with a visage of the White Consuls’ homeworld. It hung from a golden clasp adored by a ribbon composed of two blue and silver columns. After a moment, he handed it back to Wulff and then smirked at the Whiteshields. “When you’ve grown into proper Shock Troopers, that is.”

  “Aw, sir, we want to fight now. We want ribbon racks as big as yours!”

  “And to get back at them for Hyram!” Tattersall put in, sitting next to Wulff, who was nearly a head taller than the young man. She put an arm around the Whiteshield and jostled him.

  “Now, now, young man, police that bellyaching,” she lectured. “This is a time for rest and we would not want to spoil it. If we got into an improper scrap, what would good Lieutenant Hyram think of us, hm?”

  The Whiteshields, disappointed but obedient, nodded and rested their elbows on the table. It was very quiet in the dugout, with each Shock Trooper lost in their own mind. They gazed at the boarded walls or down at their boots. Lho-sticks, burning between their fingers, were not smoked. Full cups of steaming recaf were never raised. Tin trays packed with rations went untouched.

  Marsh Silas pushed his own tray forward and sat up a little bit. A curious smile spread, then.

  “You know, young ones,” he began, “Hyram used to be very green. When he first came to Cadia, he thought he made a grave mistake. A glorified clerk coming to take part in our fights, why, he might have signed his own execution orders. He could’ve writ his mama and papa for a special transfer to some cozy assignment in a kasr or on another planet in the sector. But on he stayed.”

  “A curious thing to me,” Clivvy said. “If a frightened man sees a way out, why would he not take it?”

  Marsh’s warm smile grew wistful as his glittering violet eyes fell on the table.

  “Because he saw a fight worth fighting here,” he said quietly. “So he stays, because he knows it’s right. Not just for the Emperor and for cause, but for him in here,” he tapped his breastplate. Looking up at all the faces around him, he nodded resolutely. “We should be so proud, and honored, to serve with such a man.”

  “Here, here.”

  All turned to see Commissar Ghent standing in the entrance to the dugout. Without the moonlight to outline him, he was more of a shadow tinged with the edges of light emanating from their lamps. He didn’t step in and after a moment, he raised his hand. His finger pointed at Marsh Silas. “Come with me, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marsh walked out into the night air, his head bare to the cold. He followed the Commissar down the trench a short way before they stopped in a well on the right side. It was big enough for about four men to stand shoulder to shoulder, six if they were chest to chest. Ghent resumed a dictatorial posture, raising his chin so he could look down his nose at Marsh and folding his hands behind his back. Marsh Silas stood at parade rest, his legs out and his arms folded behind him.

  “What’s the word of Hyram?” was the first thing he asked. “Whatever vagueness you told them, spare me.”

  “He is resting, but the Medicae surgeons do not know if he will ever wake again.”

  “All the same, the weapons platoon is without an officer. I will attach them to your command to make up for his absence.” Marsh nodded gravely—his brows knit, his gaze narrowed and fell to the duckboards. Ghent’s hands came to his sides and he exhaled heavily. “Silas, hear me. I understand this is a burden. But you must keep a clear head. Soon, we shall have another battle. An important one. Lingering on Hyram will not help you and more importantly, it will not aid your men. Clear your mind, focus on what you need to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ghent suddenly appeared uncomfortable. He looked up and down the trench briefly. Marsh quirked an eyebrow. “Is that all, sir?”

  “No, just…” The Commissar grunted and took off his hat. He ran his opposite hand over his blonde hair in a most stressful manner. “...the other night, when Colonel Isaev ordered me to shoot you. I did not wish to. I believe his order to be unjust and unfair.”

  “I agree, sir,” Marsh said with a bemused gasp.

  “No, you do not understand. I have served him and others like Isaev for many years. For all their honor, they are petty, angry, and as you saw, ready to meet the most trivial of slights with the most severe of punishments. I believe for many years this to be standard but, watching you, Carstensen, and Hyram grow and succeed in places I had never thought. It has made me wonder, made me think.”

  He held his hat with both hands. “Officers and leaders truly do have other ways of commanding their troops. Commissars as well. I just wish to express that your plans for a schola, to raise new generations of officers and Commissars, is a very sound idea. Although by no means wealthy, I am prepared to put up some capital behind it as well.”

  “T-thank you, sir. Your generosity will mean very much,” Marsh replied after hesitating for a time. He did his best not to sound incredulous. Ghent must have noticed anyway.

  “I spent my youth training you how to be the best soldier you could be. I have alway considered myself the teacher. But, I suppose, there is much to learn from your pupils, no?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “So, I will go with you also, to augment your command and facilitate leadership for the weapons platoon. Tis a Commissar’s duty to advise officers and inspire men.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You are a humanitarian man, Silas. You have risen in spite of the hand you were dealt. Stripped of your nobility, your rights, your inheritance—you were cheated. But here you are, an officer by merit, honored by Astartes, planning to take Carstensen for a wife.” Marsh Silas blushed and folded his arms across his chest uncomfortably. “You have dreams for the Astra Militarum and the Imperium. I see you working so hard to make them become real.”

  “Sir…what is this? You have harangued me all my life. Even when you honor me, it feels as though I am punished. Now, you speak softly, you acknowledge who I am. I do not understand.”

  “I am expressing…I am merely saying…” Ghent finally looked back up. “...you should keep up this struggle. Do not let Isaev or these setbacks stop you. Keep on with this fight.”

  Wide-eyed, Marsh could not help but recoil. Ghent was speaking softly, almost proudly, and that was more unnerving than his previous tone. Even though his lips remained taut, he spoke as if he were smiling.

  When Marsh Silas didn’t speak, Ghent released a heavy breath, put on his cap, and reached into his coat pocket. He produced a slip of parchment which he promptly handed to the Lieutenant. “In two days’ time, the 1333rd shall move back to the front alongside the 45th Altridge Regiment. You will provide support along the left flank of the advance, with the Astartes in the center. Carry on, Lieutenant.”

  “Commissar,” Marsh said without taking his eyes off the orders. “Why did you always make me push longer than the other Whiteshields? In the mud, the snow, and the rain? Why was I always the first one out and the last one to come in?”

  Ghent’s mouth twitched into what could pass for a smile. But it was fleeting, gone even before Marsh Silas could blink.

  “You shall discover why one day,” he said. “One day soon, I should think.”

  Ghent disappeared into the dark web of trenches which laced throughout the valley. Marsh was left standing on his lonesome, the wind tugging at his loose blonde locks and flapping the parchment in his grasp.

  He looked at the Order of the Cerulean Eagle. His legs carried him out of the trenchworks and over the interior lines all the way back to the field Medicae. The journey, not a short one through the massive Imperial encampment, was not a blur. Marsh Silas was not in a daze or a stupor, though his mind did wander. It was more so a brief lapse in his vision. One moment, he was standing in the trench and the next he was showing the Medicae sentry his identification papers.

  Permitted access, he returned to that place of darkness with its stenches of blood and rotten flesh. Soon, he found the officer’s ward. There was Carstensen, sitting on Hyram’s wounded side. She was whispering something in his ear even though he was still asleep. Without speaking to her, he went to the other side, placed the medal on the pillow beside his friend’s head, and then slid his hand into Hyram’s.

  “Brother-mine,” he whispered. “We will return to the front soon. I would have you know that I will get these men through. All of them, yours and mine. I wish you would join us. To go without you would be like leaving a trench without a bayonet. But I make you this promise: I will get those men through alive. I promised myself I would; you, Lilias, myself, we all agreed to do so. Not just for the schola but because it is right. I promise.”

  He let go of Hyram’s hand and once more leaned down to press his face over his chest. The beating was still there, muted, but steady. Tears did not slide down his cheeks this time, even though he wished they would. To hear his own sniffling would have been better than Hyram’s silence or the pitiful noises of the Medicae.

  A hand grasped some of his thick locks and he released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Carstensen, that wonderful woman, knew there were no words that could soothe him at this moment. The offer of her touch was more than enough to provide some solace for this weary and downtrodden affair.

  The fingers laced to the back of his head and scratched a little.

  “Brother-mine.”

  Marsh raised his head and found himself face-to-face with an exhausted, smiling Hyram. His violet eyes were half-open but his grin was the broadest it had ever been, raising his long, bushy sideburns. Even the brownish scar which arced up from his jawline to his eye lost all its grimness.

  Marsh gasped in relief, nearly choking on a sob. It took every ounce of energy not to fling himself upon his friend in tender embrace. Hyram patted his bearded cheek. “Blessings are bestowed only by the Emperor, my friend. Although, if it is my lowly approval you seek, then you shall have it. Doubt not yourself, for in you I place my faith and trust, dearest friend.”

  Hyram smirked a bit more and let his hand drop. With a sigh, he turned his gaze to the ceiling. “But please…try not to invade the Eye of Terror or some fool thing?”

  “We’ll postpone the assault for now, sir,” Marsh replied. “But we’ll raise plenty of hell in your absence.”

  “Lilias?” Hyram turned his head slowly, mindful of chest and shoulder. “They’ll need Carstensen the Cadian more than ever. Be there for them, be their reservoir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hyram looked back up at the ceiling.

  “I am sorry I cannot join you at the front.” The officer shook his head sadly. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. “I would not lie here while my friends fight on. Tis a dreadful thing. How can a man call himself a soldier if he stays behind?”

  Marsh cupped his friend’s hand in his.

  “That’s the leader within you speaking. It is a mere wound and there is no shame in it. You will come back to us soon. Every Cadian ought to have a bad one like that once in a while. We need scars just like we need charge packs and decent rations.”

  Hyram nodded as the tears fell down his temples, leaving little trails along his dust face. Marsh Silas reached forward and wiped them away with the side of his knuckle. This made his comrade smile warmly. After a little while, he nodded and looked back up.

  “Very well. That’s enough, you two. Get out of here and back to the men. Take care of them, won’t you? And cause no trouble.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marsh stood up, saluted smartly, and departed. Over his shoulder, he heard Hyram say something to Carstensen. When he was a few paces away, he lingered by a column. Carstensen leaned over Hyram, her ear near his lips. When she drew away, she nodded, saluted, and followed. Instead of waiting for him, she passed by him and Marsh had to quicken his pace.

  She did not seem perturbed or agitated but she was neither gleeful. It wasn’t until they exited the Medicae that Marsh Silas finally felt courageous enough to speak. “What did the man tell you?”

  “Nothing of import, my love,” she said, casting her emerald-azure gaze at him with a smile. “Just a few parting words from father to daughter.”

  Before Marsh could retort, Carstensen slipped her arm around his. “You forgot your hat, darling.”

  “I’m not on duty, I’m required to cover my head.”

  “I was thinking of the chill.”

  “Aren’t you a sweet thing?”

  “I wish he could come with us; we are all stronger together. But we shall carry the day.”

  “I should hope we will finish them quickly. They are on the backfoot, no less. Do you think, when it is over, we shall be granted leave to Kasr Sonnen for a respite? I’d like to visit the cathedral and offer up my thanks to the Emperor.”

  “If we fight well enough in these coming days, I should imagine so. And then, we can all go home together.”